Chapter Text
Once long ago, the castle that sat atop the smoking mountain had been filled with the colorful visage of life. Servants bustled about, tending to the lush outer gardens and the needs of the noble family who lived inside. It had been called Summerhall then, named for the glittering days of sunshine and warmth that seemed endless to all who inhabited it.
Until the day the Blackfyre scourge had descended.
The unforgiving beasts had butchered nearly every Summerhall inhabitant, ripping even the sunshine from the once vibrant castle. They had spattered the beautiful marble stone with Targaryen blood, draping their bodies from the balconies and staking their heads on pikes just outside the castle gates.
The massacre had left all but one Targaryen dead— the youngest son, Aegon, who had escaped in a crate packed with apples, carried by the sworn sword who had vowed to protect him. He would never forget the sight of his slain family left to rot as buzzards pecked at their eyes on the outskirts of the castle. Duncan had forbid him to look, but Aegon did not want to forget a single detail of the atrocity that had befallen nearly everyone he had ever loved.
A few years later, it was said that the Blackfyre bastards who had claimed Summerhall had nearly all succumbed to a fever that had swept across the nearby villages. It had filled their lungs with blood, choking them with their own vitality. Some say it had been a curse wrought from slaughtering an ancient bloodline, but those who had lost family to the same sweeping illness knew that it had been inescapable once it surpassed the iron gates.
For whatever the reason, Summerhall— which had now been dubbed Dragon’s Crypt by the nearby village— now sat empty. And Aegon was anxious to return to it.
“But why won’t you take me with you,” He pleaded, watching as Dunk downed a second tankard of ale from across the candle lit table. They were currently stationed in the Ashford Tavern, only a days travel from Summerhall. “Every report says that no one has been seen around the castle grounds in moons!”
“You well know why,” Dunk said, wiping a drop of ale from his chin. “Just because no one has been seen doesn’t mean there ain’t no one inside. Who knows if there are any of those bastards left? Or if anyone has claimed it for themselves already.”
He sighed and leaned forward, leveling Aegon with a look of understanding. “I know you’re wanting to return home, Egg. But after all we’ve been through I can’t risk your life again. Let me scout out the grounds first, alright?”
For the past three years, the two of them had been traveling the distant lands and working odd jobs to make ends meet. Dunk had served a few different noble families, but never stayed for too long to protect Egg’s identity. The boy had kept his head shaved to keep from being identified by his silver locks, something his family had been known for. Dunk feared that Egg risked getting kidnapped and ransomed if anyone knew of his true lineage.
Most recently, the pair had been working at the Fossoway’s Cider Mill. Dunk worked as a guard and Egg had been tasked with picking the apples. It was honest work, and Dunk had formed a friendship with Raymun Fossoway who owned the mill with his wife, Rowan.
Raymun had traveled with them to the Ashford Tavern, ready to take Egg back to the mill after Dunk left for Summerhall.
It had been no small feat to convince him to go along with their plan.
When Dunk had told Raymun he planned to re-take the castle, the man had gone pale, snatching one of Dunk’s massive hands in his own.
“You musn’t go!” He cried, “Haven’t you heard of what now haunts the Dragon’s Crypt?”
Dunk snatched his hand back, his brows furrowing. “Don’t call it that. Egg hates that name. And I heard all the Blackfyre scum are good and dead from the Spring sickness?”
“They’re dead, but not from no illness,” Raymun said, shaking his head. “I’ve heard tell of a creature that’s taken residence up in that castle. The smith said he saw it in the woods beyond the gates when he was checking his traps after sun down. Horrible looking thing, he said. Glowing eyes and long pointy teeth and sharp claws.”
“Sounds like a wolf or a wild cat,” Dunk remarked, staring at the fire burning in the hearth just beyond where they were sitting.
“No, he said it was in the shape of a man. Nearly got away with his life, he said. The thing ran at him, growlin’ and gnashin’ its teeth. Oh Dunk, you mustn’t go there! You’ll be as good as dead!”
“The smith is rather fond of a tall tale. Remember when he said he fought a bear when he was just a boy?” Dunk said with a chuckle. “I’ll be fine, I swear it. But if for some reason I don’t return in a week’s time, come with a few men from the village. Just in case.”
That had been a few days ago, and now Raymun slumbered away in their room upstairs while Dunk and Egg hashed out the rest of the plan before Dunk rode for Summerhall tomorrow morning. He had not mentioned what Raymun had told him about the horrible creature to Egg.
Summerhall was the last thing that Egg had left of his family, and Dunk would be damned if he didn’t help him reclaim it.
* * *
The road leading up to Summerhall was long and winding, now overgrown by thorn bushes and vines. The summer had led way to the first chills of fall, and the trees had begun their great shed in hues of yellow, orange, and red. It was a rather beautiful sight, Dunk thought as he rode along on Thunder, listening to the leaves crunch under the horse’s hooves. Nature reclaiming what man had built so long ago.
The overgrown brush also led him to believe that no one had been here in some time. Of course, why would a monster care about a few bushes in the road?
His heart began to squeeze as he neared the iron gates. Not from nerves, but from the sunny memories that lived beyond them. He had been with the Targaryen family for a few years before the massacre had happened. It was the longest he had ever been at a post.
He remembered the buzz of the bumblebees that had whizzed around the gardens, and the birdsong that echoed from the tall trees. But most of all he remembered the giggling of the children as they played in the courtyard.
Now it was eerily silent, still as death aside from him and Thunder.
As they approached the gates, Dunk let out sharp inhale.
Where there had once been the heads of the Targaryen family upon pikes now sat a new set of rotting heads. From the look of it they had been there for a time, and although Dunk had never gotten a good look at any of the Blackfyre men, he had a feeling the heads belonged to them.
A chill ran down his spine and not for the first time, Dunk ran a hand over his pocket, feeling for the square of cloth he kept folded inside.
If no one had been up here and the Blackfyre’s were all dead, who had beheaded them?
Dunk jumped off the back of Thunder and trudged toward the wrought iron gate, staring at the nearly skinless head closest to the road. It had been thoroughly feasted upon by maggots and any number of carnivorous creatures, and there was really no way to tell who it had belonged to, once. But he noted that the bones of its spinal column had not been severerd cleanly.
It was as if it had been ripped clean off of its shoulders.
On the gate he found a rusted padlock and heavy chain. He searched the ground and for a heavy rock and lifted it high before bringing it down on the lock. It took him only three tries to bust the thing, the chain falling to the ground with a heavy thunk. Slowly he pushed the gate open, wincing as it squealed in protest. If anything was living in the castle or beyond, they had surely heard him coming.
He lead Thunder to the stalls, hoping for atleast a bit of hay. Once he had him situated, he offered the old horse an apple he’d packed in his saddle bag, slowly petting his silky mane.
“It’s weird to be back here, isn’t it old boy?” Drunk murmured as the horse crunched through the apple. “If I don’t return, give Egg my regards, will you?”
He took a deep breath before turning and venturing toward Summerhall, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
***
It had not been easy to breach the castle.
Heavy furniture had been piled up against most of the entrances, and Dunk had had to scale the side of a wall wrapped in ivy. He sat panting on the edge of the balcony he’d climbed up to, closing his eyes and sliding his hand into his pocket.
“Mother protect me,” He mused before hauling himself to his feet.
The door on the balcony mercifully had not been blocked with anything, and Dunk slowly made his way into an old study. The room was filled with dust but was otherwise unbothered.
He found a candle on a nearby desk, swiftly lighting it and holding it before him as he entered the hallway.
The soft candlelight cast shadows upon the cold stones and he quietly made his way along the corridor. The damp chilled him beneath his heavy cloak, and for the first time he realized why so many now referred to Summerhall as a crypt. The reaching hands of death stretched across every inch of the castle.
For a while, Dunk carried on as he had, checking in each room while gripping the pommel of this sword. There was no trace of anyone, and he thought maybe Summerhall had been left alone after the Blackfyre’s had died.
He did not and could not let himself be distracted by the past. Instead he focused on the rage he felt for all the had been stolen from Egg.
And from himself.
He tried not to dwell on who’s faces he had seen upon those pikes and agonizing feeling of having to turn away from them to fulfill his oath of protecting the young boy who silently wept inside the apple crate he carried.
Each of the younger Targaryen children had been entrusted to a guard sworn to protect them. Dunk had known each of them well, as they’d shared quarters near the servants at Summerhall. He had nearly considered a few of them brothers.
So when the castle had been taken, he had trusted his fellow men would protect their charges.
In the years following, he and Egg hadn’t heard a single whisper that anyone else had made it out. It was something that weighed on Dunk heavily, although he was forever grateful he had been able to save Egg.
As he turned the corner to the Great Hall, he skidded to a stop at what lay before him.
In the center lay hundreds of candles, all lit. The wax spilled everywhere across the cracked stones, and the lights danced up the wall, casting flickering shadows toward the high arched ceilings. In the middle lay a naked man, his limbs twisted and hands and feet bloody from where spikes had been driven through them. His neck was stained a bright crimson, like a blooming flower against the pale ash of his skin.
Dunk covered his mouth with his hand, dropping the silver candlestick.
“What creature….could have done this?” He asked aloud, staring at the body in the center of the hall.
Something shifted near the far wall, and Dunk’s eyes widened as two glowing eyes peered at him from the shadows.
“Fucking god help me,” he whispered, touching his fingers to his pocket and drawing his sword as the figure moved closer to the candle pyre.
Its shining hair fell in silver waves around its lovely, sharp face. It was dressed in fine silk, with not a single drop of blood marking its finery, aside from the crimson which dripped from the claws at its side. The glow of its eyes was a light purple, framed by pale lashes that cast long shadows down porcelain skin.
And it was when Dunk finally looked into those glowing eyes that he realized he knew this otherworldly creature.
“…Aerion?” He whispered, his hand slowly leaving the pommel of his sword.
Aerion stood eerily still, watching him for a moment before his face stretched into a smirk, highlighting his long, pointed canines.
“And so the traitor returns. Welcome to my tomb, one you should have shared with me.”